Where I Come From
by silentdisregard
Summary: John goes back to Afghanistan after season 2. He talks to his fellow soldiers and remembers the great detective. Post TRF, slight spoilers, no slash. One-shot. This isn't a very good summary.


**AN: So this story is loosely based on the song "Where I Come From" by Montgomery Gentry. I've been wanting to do this story for a while now, and now that I'm on break, I was finally able to get around to it. Hope you all like it! **

**Warnings: Post TRF, slight spoilers, no slash.**

**Disclaimer: The only characters that are mine are Wilson and Jensen, everyone else belongs to Moffat.**

John Watson stared at the tan canvas of his standard army issue tent. He was lying on his back on his green, standard army issue cot. And he was _bored. _There was nothing to do. He supposed he could shoot the wall-but, no. That was _his_ relief, not John's. Besides, someone would hear it and come running. In the army, a gunshot was not usually something to be taken lightly. John sighed and sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the cot. He pulled on his sandy boots, stood up, and walked outside. A few tents away, there was a group of soldiers sitting around and talking. He couldn't make out what they were saying, but he could tell that the men were rapt with attention for the man who was talking. One of them saw John and waved him over.

"Hey, Watson! Wanna join?" the soldier had an American accent. Wilson. That was his name.

"Join what?" John asked as he walked over. As he came closer, everyone stopped talking.

"We're doing 'Where I Come From'."

"Ahhh." John knew that 'game'. He had done it before. When times got rough, or the troops were just bored, some would get together and talk about home. Sometimes, it was great, and allowed the men to get to know each other better. But sometimes, it was that much harder to watch his friends fall in battle, knowing what they had left behind back home. John shook his head and made up his mind, sitting down. "Sure," he replied. "Why not?" And just like that, the depressed, loner soldier that the others had viewed John as was gone. The image had been replace by one of a world weary man who had been through tough times and now wanted companionship.

"Jensen was just about to go," Wilson said. The attention was given to Robert Jensen, a lawyer-turned-soldier from Dublin. Turns out he had a wife and five year old twins back home.

"They're growin' up so fast," he said. His Irish accent was so thick, John had to concentrate to understand him. "My daughter, Bonnie, just learned how to tie her shoes. Niles can read already. God, I miss them." The men in the group all asked him more questions about his kids. John kept quiet, trying to block out the answers. Knowing the man had a family waiting for him was worsening John's mood. John was snapped out of his thoughts by someone calling his name.

"What about you, Watson? How's it where you come from?" Wilson asked.

"Where I come from? It's a city that once held color and life and fun, and now just holds grey and sadness. There was a man, a detective, who made my life meaningful. We had fun, and because of him, I was making a difference. We chased criminals and he pissed off everyone around him. He was an annoying dick most of the time, but he had his moments. He was a genius, and he acted like a child with ADD. But that was fine, because he was my friend. And he was my 'home', he was a lot of things I wanted to be. But, I had to settle with being his friend, his partner, his sidekick, because there was only one of him." John was staring at the ground, blinking back tears that were trying to escape.

"Did you love him?" John looked up at the soldier that had spoken.

"Not in that way, no. I'm not gay. I loved him, but more as a brother, or a friend. Maybe I even idolized him a bit. Hell, I would've given my life to save him, a hundred times over."

"You keep talking in past tense. What happened to him?" John stared at the soldier. Smith, John Smith was his name. John remembered now, remembered how he had shown up a couple weeks ago, in the middle of the Afghanistan desert in July, in a blue suit and red high top sneakers. He was given a uniform and military boots, but on days like today, he preferred his sneakers to the boots. His brown hair remained perfectly gelled, even in the heat, and he sometimes wore glasses over his brown eyes. As far as John could tell, he didn't really need the glasses, and only wore them to look smarter. He sounded British most of the time, but occasionally John could hear hints of a Scottish accent breaking through. Smith had attached himself to John, keeping an eye on him and John guessed that if he had to choose, Smith was the closest thing to a friend he had right now. "Well?"

"Sorry, what?" John had forgotten the question during his pondering.

"What happened to him?" the man repeated.

"He….well, he…" John took a deep breath, forced the words out past the lump in his throat. "He died. Jumped off a building. Said the rumors about him were true, that he was a fake and everything about him was a lie."

"Did you believe him?" Smith leaned forward, curiosity plain on his face.

"No. The only major lie he ever told was when he said that to me, right before he jumped. I lived with him, I knew him better than anyone. And he wasn't a fake. I believed in him….I still do. And no one will ever convince me otherwise." John's eyes had turned steely and determined. It was true-John would never believe any different. Because he knew the truth. Moriarty was real, Richard Brooke was a fake, and he believed, and always would believe, in Sherlock. And that was the honest truth.

"What would you do if it turned out that he was alive?" the other man asked. John was shocked by the question. His brow furrowed.

"I've never thought about that before. I guess I would….." John huffed a laugh. "Honestly? I would probably punch him, repeatedly. Then I would hug him….and never let him go again." John hesitated for a minute, then continued. "And he is still alive, he has to be."

"Why?" this time, it seemed Wilson had beaten Smith to the question.

"Because he's too good to have been defeated by something so stupid. He was too smart, too detached, too sociopathic-or so he said. He would never let something like that get to him. It just wasn't his in his nature." John sighed deeply then gave a short laugh that sounded more like a sob. "God, I miss him. Stupid, infuriating, genius that he was." John was fighting back tears, and the group decided that it was a good time to switch the attention to someone else. But Smith kept his eyes on the saddened soldier, who remained oblivious as he kept his attention fixed on the ground. John Smith know that Watson was hurting, which was one reason why he had chosen to be friends with the man. Forget whatever anyone had sent him here for, Watson needed a friend. And he had tried to be that for the man, but he knew no one could ever replace Sherlock. Watson looked up, seeming to have sensed Smith's eyes on him. Watson looked confused at the sorrowful, regretful look on the other man's face.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," John Smith said quietly. "I am." With that, he got up and walked away. He had seen many things in his time, a lot of them sad. But when a grown man fought back tears over a friend, he couldn't take it. He wanted to leave, but knew that he wouldn't. He would stay, just a little while longer, just for John Watson, because the man he really wanted couldn't be there.

oOo

Several countries away, a tall, lanky man sat staring at the screen of his computer. He had just witnessed the exchange between the soldiers and he felt terrible. He had just sat there, alive, while John Watson cried over his 'dead' friend. "I'm sorry, John," the man told the computer. "This was the only way to keep you safe. Hold on, just a little longer. For me, please….a miracle, for me." The man closed the lid, and pulled open a drawer of the desk. He reached in and pulled out a box of nicotine patches. He glared at it, before proceeding to toss it across the room. If John could survive without him, then he could survive without those. That's all it came down to, in the end. Just surviving another day until he could go back home. The man looked out the window and stared into the busy street below. "I believe in John Watson," he whispered. "Just as completely as he believes in me."


End file.
